The Moriarty Door
by snakelaces
Summary: At the very back of James Moriarty's mind, there is a door.


**A/N: Moriarty is a great character, and I hope that I've done him justice. **

**This is to be the first installment of the The Moriarty Files series, but it all depends on how this is recieved, so if you like it, please review!**

**Moriarty playlist can be found on my profile.**

* * *

The Moriarty Door

* * *

Listen closely.

There is a door.

* * *

At the very back of James Moriarty's mind, there is a door.

The door is not special. It is neither abnormally large nor remarkably small. It is not carved or decorated, and the thin layer of lacquer covering the wood has started to chip and fade where it has been kicked in one too many times. There is no shiny golden knocker, no doorbell, no doormat with an annoyingly inspirational saying. There is no sign on the door indicating a room number, the name of the tenant, or any information that might give a hint as to its reason for being there. For all intents and purposes, the door seems entirely forgettable.

If, hypothetically speaking, you were able to gain access to James Moriarty's mind, if you were somehow able to bypass the rows of bombs and traps, and if you were able to navigate that twisted maze without losing yourself or sinking into madness, you might then think to pass that door by. "_That's just a boring, ordinary door,"_ you might say, _"and why should I take the trouble to look inside? I'm sure there's nothing of importance!_" That is where you would be wrong.

There is a door in James Moriarty's mind. If you were to open that door, you would find a room.

The contents of the room are constantly changing. If you were to open that door at any given moment, you would find something totally different than what there was the moment before. Do you think he would have it any other way?

The room contains everything that Jim needs. You might think that a man like Moriarty would not have many needs. You would be wrong.

_Let me show you._

* * *

_When James Moriarty turned 10, the room was a throneroom._

Luxurious red velvet carpeted the floor, and the walls were painted a brilliant shade of gold. Portraits of the king hung upon the walls, crafted by the royal artists in watercolor and pastel and shades of red crayon. Light came in through the two immense, gilded windows at the end of the room.

James knew that if he looked out the window, he would see the Royal Gardens, the expertly manicured landscape tended to by the Royal Gardeners. They would always trim the hedges to perfection, or else he would have them decapitated. Jim had never looked out the window; he did not like pretty yellow flowers or bright rustling plants or gardens or rushing, burbling, golden fountains. He liked scared gardeners, thus the garden.

At the other end of the room was the throne. It was a gigantic, golden monstrosity stolen from a movie he'd seen once, all intricate carvings and embedded gemstones the size of his head. It might have been somewhat tacky, but 10-year-old James liked it.

Jim was not alone in his throneroom. There were 100 lords and ladies there as well, all dressed up in their silken finery. Sometimes he made them dance. Sometimes he made them strip. Sometimes he held public executions. Sometimes he did all three at once.

Whenever he felt alone, or powerless, James would visit his throneroom and take control.

* * *

_When James Moriarty turned 15, the room was a dance club._

Jim hated dance clubs. He'd only been in one once before, snuck in through a back door with a few cronies on a dare. It was disgusting. Sweaty bodies stuck together in a filthy, writhing mass, the stench of blind inebriation and vomit on the floor, the loud, bad music that beat at his ears and threatened to burst through the inside of his head. The sloppy women and piggish men. Easy targets, but they weren't interesting enough to merit the bile creeping up his throat. They were base and stupid and drunk and revolting. Too human. Several patrons had ended up with bleach in their drinks that night.

James hated dance clubs. The sights and sounds and smells were overwhelming.

Whenever he felt overcome, James would visit the dance club and lose all sensation.

* * *

_When James Moriarty was 23, the room was a department store._

Jim had always loved shopping. Acquiring new things always brought a cheap thrill; it might be petty and materialistic, but the rush of owning something new always managed to distract him for a few minutes. Anything to take his mind off the boredom, right?

The store in James's head sold a lot of things. One department sold suits. Rows upon rows of suits, all custom-tailored to his figure. They hung quietly on their racks, waiting for him. They had ties, too. It was hard to find nice ties.

Another department stocked cops. They stood neatly, in rows of five, staring blankly ahead of them as he examined and poked and prodded the merchandise.

There were many other departments, including the weapons department (which sold camera phones), and the one that sold the pretty electric chairs, but the department Moriarty was most interested in was a display. It was a white room, with dozens upon dozens of hooks on the walls. On each hook there was a face, ready to be worn. They weren't very expensive.

Whenever Jim needed something, he visited the store in his head.

* * *

_When James Moriarty was 26, the room was black._

It was utter darkness. There were scissors.

When Jim needed to go elsewhere, he came to the room in the dark.

* * *

_When James Moriarty was almost 31, the door was locked. _

_The hallway was empty, and he heard the other-hims screeching. There was an hourglass in his pocket._

* * *

_When James Moriarty was 32 and 74 seconds, the room was a cell._

The floor of the cell was a creamy white, and the walls were covered with bright, blinking screens. They flashed black and white, text and pictures and smiles and teeth. There was a piano in the corner. The sleek, black Steinway grand shouldn't have fit in a cell the size of a small walk-in closet, but it did. There was a vase with roses on top. He didn't know what color they were.

There was a metal chair in the middle of the room, and next to it sat a yellow plastic toolbox containing a single silver scalpel. It took him on adventures.

Whenever James wanted to explore, he came to the cell in his head.

* * *

_For a while, the door disappeared. He did not look for it._

* * *

_When James Moriarty was 34 years, 62 days and exactly 370 minutes, the room returned._

It contained Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

This is all I can tell you, at least for now.

I trust this is enough to sate your curiosity and let you be on your way. I would offer you more, but neither of us have the time nor the energy to spare. Moriarty's mind is not a pleasant place to wander about in.

Is that all?

No?

What happened? He's gone. No, not dead. Gone.

You think I've been blathering on about this for nothing?

* * *

No.

The day James Moriarty disappeared, he went through that door and never came back.


End file.
